


waldosia.

by katsukii



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Minor Violence, Red String of Fate, Slow Burn, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:07:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26186167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsukii/pseuds/katsukii
Summary: ｗａｌｄｏｓｉａnoun; a condition characterized by scanning faces in a crowd,looking for one specific person.Black Butler/Kuroshitsuji Soulmate AU in which everyone is connected by the Red String of Fate and you can briefly see your thread in moments where you are close to your soulmate.
Relationships: Ash Landers/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. i.

Elias Morgan does not care for soulmates.

To be perfectly correct, he hates them. Hates the notion, the effort, the payoff. It's so trite, all of it, just one silly idea deceiving innocent children into believing life will be a dream because they have _true love._ He absolutely, positively, down to his core hates it. Life, he knows, is a gauntlet, and love conquers nothing. If it did, he would've been happier. _Should've_ been happier. But love is a farce, and Elias despises all things to do with it, because he knows deep down that the people who love you most will always have to leave.

He wishes he could've known that when he was young.

[x]

Six years old, bouncing out of Church school with friends at his sides, he did not think at all about what life would be like when he was older. He did not think about a job, did not think about how to make a living. Did not think about social status. But most of all, he did not think about what the other kids thought about: meeting their _'soulmate.'_ It was always the talk of the class, entailing things like getting married, settling down, starting a family. Mostly, it was the girls who would talk about finding their soulmate. And Lillian - Lillian most of all.

She was his best friend. Not by choice, but by circumstance. Their fathers were close business partners, their mothers close friends, and together they were raised in each others' company, practically inseparable. The two went everywhere together, school, shopping, playing. To an outside eye, they were opposite sides of the same coin. Where Lillian was clumsy, Elias was cautious. Where Elias was shy, Lillian was inquisitive - always poking her nose where it didn't belong, sneaking around and uncovering little secrets where she could. Unlike him, she was a bundle of energy, a walking dreamer; her head was perpetually in the clouds and Elias wouldn't dare dream of bringing her down. He sought to be a proper friend. Someone she could rely on, even if she had no one else. So, as such, he would entertain her chatter of nonsense things: chatter of true love and storybooks and - there was that word again - _soulmates._ 'I can't wait to meet mine,' she'd say as they sat in the grass outside the Church, braiding flower stalks together. 'I wonder what he's like? Oh! What if I already know him? Ahh, I can't wait to be older!' And Elias would nod, watch her technique closer as his tiny hands worked to copy the motions. But he didn't want to be older. Not just yet. Why couldn't he stay making flower crowns forever?

Three days before his eighth birthday, he mustered the courage to ask Mother what a soulmate was. She'd sat him down on the swinging bench outside the Church, placed a hand on his head and ruffled his neatly-combed hair. 'A soulmate,' she'd said, 'is a very special person. They may not be exactly like you, but you'll understand each other better than anyone. They'll take care of you, and you, them. Now, doesn't that sound wonderful, my Elias?' But he didn't understand. 'How do you find them?' he'd asked - not because he was interested in finding his own, but because, at the least, he wanted to help Lillian find hers. He hoped it was someone wealthy. While she was a commoner, Elias knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was anything but common. He wanted the best for her.

But Mother took it as interest for himself. Proud, she had smiled her most gracious smile, cheeks beaming with a warm glow. Though aged, her face was the picture of radiance. Elias wished it could stay this way forever. No Father to worry about, no more seeing Mother cry. Only smiles and happy endings. 'My Elias,' she spoke at last, voice a soft hum on the wind. 'Someday, when you're older, you may see a glowing red thread appear. It connects you to your soulmate; only you and she can see it.' 'Like... like _magic?'_ he wondered aloud. She chuckled, tipped her head back into the breeze. Her shoulders shook with her laughter. 'Yes, like _magic,_ my dear. If you follow that magic thread, you'll find her.' Easy enough. Follow the thread. There and then, he made a promise to himself: he would help Lillian find her soulmate, no matter the cost.

[x]

The winter of his fourteenth birthday, Lillian got sick. She stopped showing up at school, stopped coming to the Church garden to play. Father forbade him from visiting her, and for a while, he complied. He would go to school, come home, shut himself away to study. Shut himself away from Father's yelling. A good son. He was a good son.

Life carried on.

The new year came, and the snow began to melt away. He still had not seen Lillian at school. Each day, Elias returned home looking more and more sullen. The toll of Lillian's absence was a clear one, and he'd hardly the strength to conceal it from Father anymore. He thought he might never see her again, until one January morning, as Mother was wrapping a woolen scarf around his neck, he heard her whisper, _'visit her. Your father won't have to know.'_ And as their eyes met, there was a mutual understanding: today, he was not going to school. Mother finished tying his scarf and, with a smile that said everything, sent him on his way.

He tried not to cry.

[x]

Lillian's room was the smallest in her ramshackle house, tucked away in a far corner with little light and stuffy air. The door leading to her quarters barely functioned anymore, boards eaten by termites and hinges rusted with age. Elias had to give the door a strong shove to force it open, and even then he had to squeeze his way inside, unable to move the door any further than an arm's length.

Inside, the room was drab and lifeless. It looked so similar to Elias', with the exception of the dollhouse and stuffed animals atop the dresser. The paint on the walls was peeling, the ceiling bore various cracks. Cobwebs stretched from corner to corner and plastered the windows. And in the center of it all was a girl, tucked into a ratty old bed with stained sheets and a flat pillow.

'Lillian.'

The sound of her name had drawn her attention. Slowly, she raised her head; soft brown irises met cautious blue, and she forced a smile onto her face - one that didn't reach her eyes.

 _'Elias!_ You came,' she'd said, and she patted the edge of the bed as if beckoning him to sit. 'You look so tired. Goodness, you have bags under your-'

She stopped. In a sudden motion, her small body seized, lungs exploding into a paroxysm of coughing. Waves of blonde hair tumbled around her shoulders as her head dipped; Elias reached forward to steady her, but fear stilled his hand and forced him to draw back. He had known colds, but had never known this. It sounded like her lungs were being shredded.

Slow seconds passed and the coughing died down. Once she had gathered herself, Lillian brought a sleeve to her forehead, dabbed at the sweat that had beaded there. 'Sorry,' she apologized, a sheepish grin springing to her lips. 'Mummy says the doctor can fix it. It's in my lungs, but it isn't bad. He can fix it.'

Elias nodded, wordless. _He could fix it._

'So. Have you seen it yet, Elias?' she asked, and the boy threw her a quizzical look.

'Seen what?'

'Your _thread,_ silly. The red string of fate!'

'Oh.' Elias glanced to his palms; when did they get so clammy? He inspected them, turned his hands over. Calloused and scarred. Lonely. Never so much as glimmered with a hint of red. 'No.'

'Well. I've seen mine, you know. But... only once.' Her voice was quiet then, so quiet. Like the brushing of feathers across snow.

'Did you follow it?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

She pulled a face, like something had disgusted her. Her brows knit, lips scrunched up into something between a pout and a frown, nose crinkled at the bridge. It was funny, and so very like her. But what wasn't was the way her voice wavered and cracked as she spoke: 'I can't.'

And Elias understood why, in that moment, his heart sank for her. The sickness took her mobility before she saw the thread appear.

'Lillian. If I could see the thread, I'd find him for you.'

The scrunched lips trembled. 'I know you would. But that's the _problem,_ Elias. I don't want to find him anymore.'

An unwelcome shiver crept along Elias' spine. That wasn't the Lillian he knew. The Lillian he had grown up knowing was always on the hunt for her soulmate - _'I bet I'll see the thread today, Elias! Will you help me follow it?'_ She was always daydreaming, always writing poems about love and reading storybooks about princes and princesses from faraway lands. She was a dreamer. She had her head in the clouds. She was a bundle of energy, and no one could take that away from her.

Yet somehow, she had given up.

'Why... wouldn't you want to find him?' Elias asked, unsure of his own words, unsure if posing the question was the right thing to do. But he was curious: why wouldn't she? The Lillian he knew, his best friend, wasn't like this. She loved love.

A raspy sigh expelled itself from her lungs. Once more, she hung her head, and her bangs fell across her face like a veil, protecting her, hiding her. 'Because... it doesn't lead to you.'

His blood went cold.

'What?'

'Don't you get it? I can see the thread right now,' said an exasperated Lillian. But exasperation soon faded into anger, and anger into sadness. She curled in on herself, knees drawn to her chest, fingers lacing themselves together. Meekly, she continued. 'I _see_ it. And it doesn't... it doesn't lead to you. I realized a year ago that I wanted it to. But... it just doesn't.'

He blinked. A moment of bated breath. Two friends staring at one another, each finding themselves unable to calm the beat of their hearts.

Then came the crushing weight.

Elias felt like the air had been stolen right out from inside him. _All this time._ All this time and he never knew, never picked up on the way she felt. All this time, and he'd never once made the effort to come visit her. Never. _Tell her you're sorry,_ he thought as his lungs fought for air. _Tell her there's someone better. Tell her something. Anything._

'Lillian,' he struggled. The scarf around his neck felt too tight, the clothes on his back felt too wrong, his own skin felt too cold. He wanted to melt away, wanted to evaporate into the nothing and be free of emotions, of stress, of soulmates - or lack thereof. But he couldn't, and for now he had to breathe. _Say something. Anything._ 'Lillian, I-'

_'Elias Leon!'_

A shrill voice sliced the air. Reality shattered, and Elias released the breath he'd been holding for too long.

'What in heaven's name are you doing away from school?' The voice was closer now. Footsteps echoed in the dank hall, and in a sudden, swift kick, the door flew all the way open. An older woman, stout, with frizzy blonde hair that was going grey at the roots, barged into the room. Her hands found her hips, brows creased into a stern glare. 'Young mister, your parents will be furious! Come now, off with you; you've your studies to tend to. You can come visit some other time. My Lillian needs her rest; the doctor will be in shortly, and she needs to get well. She _has_ to. Now, trot along.'

So Elias rose, straightened the creases from his overcoat. He turned to Lillian, cast her a sympathetic gaze as he was corralled out of the room by her mother, who was piping on about school and homework and you naughty boy, skipping school, how could you? _'I'm sorry,'_ he mouthed. And she nodded, flashed him a smile.

It did not reach her eyes.

[x]

Three weeks and no visits later, Lillian died.

_Walking pneumonia,_ it was called. An inflammation of the lungs. Particularly deadly. He'd heard from Mother that the doctors did everything they could, but that, in the end, her body was simply too weak. He had scoffed at that. _Weak._ Lillian was anything but weak. It took strength to dream, and nobody dreamed like her. She was the bravest, most powerful person he knew.

 _Had_ known.

The funeral came in February, and Elias could barely stand to look at the girl laying peacefully in the casket. Her face was too white, too perfect. There wasn't the characteristic lopsided Lillian smile on her lips. She wore a dress that she could only ever dream about wearing, and it was so cruel, he thought, that only in death would she get to be treated like a princess. She deserved better in life. She didn't deserve this.

Family, friends, and strangers alike each took their turns to speak at the service. Elias felt he should say something, but when he tried to plan out an impromptu elegy in his head, no words felt right. How could one ever hope to describe someone like her? He could say what everyone else said - that she was a true free spirit, spunky and curious, yet had the heart of an angel, so kind and thoughtful - but that only scratched the surface. Lillian was so many things, such an amalgamation of wonderful human traits. But most of all, she was a friend. Someone he could rely on, no matter what.

So he said nothing, and let his words be buried with her.

[x]

Years passed and Elias grew into somebody Lillian wouldn't have recognized. He became a defensive shell, charming on the outside but armed with all the thorns of a beautiful rose. It was a vow that he would get close to no one, trust no one. Sure, he had business connections, had acquaintances he kept at arm's length. But no friends. No one to rely on.

He abandoned home after his mother passed away, returning only for her funeral. When he saw his father again, met those cold, heartless eyes, they were an equal match for one another: Elias had learned how to shut off his emotions, too. He _had_ to. For money, for stability, he had become a mercenary - a blade for hire, willing to do the dirty work that others lacked the gut for. His hands saw blood, his conscious saw death, and along the way he had made his peace with his work. So when his father stared him down in the Church, mouthing threats as the organ played a requiem for the dearly departed, Elias stared back with nothing left to fear. He would never let this man hurt him again.

And he would never, _ever_ follow his red thread.


	2. ii.

He is twenty-six when his carefully built world comes tumbling down.

In all fairness, he should've seen it coming. Sentimentality, after all, does strange things to the heart and mind. A gentleman influenced by his emotions may not maintain decorum, and so it is best, strictly speaking, to ignore the emotions altogether. He's heard plenty a story of wives and husbands squirreling away heirlooms, snipping locks of hair without permission or stealing old, tattered photographs out of their lover's wallet. And for _what?_ Preserving a bygone era? A memory that will never exist outside of their imagination? It's ridiculous, he thinks,the lengths people will go to just to sate their grief without confronting it. Elias detests such beings.

But he can't bring himself to detest _her._

[x]

She shows up to his door at half past eleven o'clock, dressed fully in winter garb even though spring is nearly over, and wearing a hat that is fit for the summertime. A woven basket is slung over her left arm, covered with a tartan cloth, and in a trembling right hand she clutches a neatly-folded piece of parchment, now creased from the force of her grip. Her grey hair protrudes angrily from her beneath her sun hat, tied back in a particularly messy ponytail; her cheeks glow with too much blush and her lips are set into a fixed pout that is meant to give off the impression of youth. All in all, she is not a woman Elias recognizes.

And yet, she's so familiar.

A prolonged silence later (and the sudden realization that he is staring), he invites her in, asks if she would fancy a cup of tea or any other refreshment. Politely, she turns him down - no thanks, dear, I brewed some at home - and her voice is something ripped straight from a distant memory. There is a warmth about it, about _her,_ that reminds him of a place he used to know, somewhere comforting and safe. His mind floods with images of long grasses and wild flowers waving in the wind, of beaten up houses with rotting floorboards, of Church bells ringing and children screaming as they storm out of school for the day. They all feel like parts of himself, like missing puzzle pieces. Yet when he tries to look at the bigger picture, it's incomplete.

He catches himself wondering why.

The woman, who has seated herself at his shoddy kitchen table, asks him quite suddenly if he is okay, explains that he has a faraway look in his eyes. Does he? He does. Dazed, he shakes his head - shakes the clinging images free - and glances to her, a passably apologetic expression on his face. He tells her that, yes, everything is quite alright, that he was simply reflecting on the memory of a place he used to know. She chuckles, and eases back into the wicker chair. _Don't I know it,_ she tells him. _Don't I know it._

After a moment's hesitation, he begins to shuffle about the kitchen, relaying his thought process aloud in case she is curious. He's making breakfast, he says, scrambled eggs and crumpets with a side of fruit.

"If you'd like any," he adds, reaching for a shaker of salt, "please let me know." She does not respond.

Silence descends across the room as he cooks up his eggs, throwing pinches of cheese and salt and pepper into them and - oops, was that too much? In the end, they're slightly overcooked, and a bit too salty, but Elias is not picky, and besides, no one else has to be subjected to his cooking. He plates the eggs, stuffs a crumpet on the side, and spoons a generous heap of berries onto the remaining untouched area. Satisfied, he clicks his tongue, and returns to the kitchen table where he sits across from the woman and begins poking at his food.

_"Elias Leon!"_

Her voice is an explosion in the stillness of the house, shaking him to his very core as he chases a blueberry around his plate. Without his permission, his head snaps to attention, called by the sharp voice of a distant memory come back to haunt him. Slowly, _so_ slowly, their gazes meet; his pupils contract, mouth goes dry. He doesn't mean to but he finds himself staring openly, irises betraying an emotion he thought was gone from him forever: **fear.**

 _"Madame Goldstein,"_ he breathes, and his fork slips from between his fingers, falling onto the plate with a resounding clink. His chest grows tight, muscles grow tense. Of _course_ she's familiar. Of _course_ she waltzed into his house, acting like she was right at home. Of _course_ she would chide him for playing with his food. She is no stranger, this woman. And the disapproving look upon her face brings a flashback to his life twelve years ago, solidifying the thought that had been brewing in his head.

This woman is Lillian's mother.

"My child." Her voice is softer now, and he watches as the disappointment on her visage disperses into a wan smile. "Oh, just _look_ at you. All grown up. My, you're so handsome now. If only my Lillian could see you."

He _does_ look different than when he was a child, he supposes. Madame Goldstein has not seen him in over a decade, after all, and time has treated him well. Back when she knew him, he was baby-faced, scrawny, and short - shorter than Lillian, even. He had carefully cropped hair, never reaching below his ears, and his father had always tried to cover up his poliosis as best he could. _What kind of child are you, huh?_ he would ask, as if Elias knew the answer. He'd always hated his hair, hated his condition. He was a cursed child. But now, his two-toned hair is the defining feature of the man that is Elias Morgan. He displays it like a message, a badge of honor. _You can't take this from me, Father. Not anymore._

Madame Goldstein assesses him in silence. He wears his hair long now - longer than Lillian's hair had ever been. It is shiny, well taken care of; the jet black hue reminds her of a running river at night. And his face! She can barely believe the change. Gone is the pudgy, red-cheeked boy of years past. Now, he is all angles, pronounced cheekbones and a deep, sharp jawline. She notes, reflecting on when he answered the door, that he has grown tall, too - _quite_ tall, in fact - and fits into his clothes a bit better now, arms less scrawny, hands less tiny. But perhaps the greatest change is in the kindness behind his eyes. His irises once held that childlike sparkle of wonder, the kind some adults never lose - surely her Lillian would've been one of them - but they are now a swimming pool of uncertainty, cloaked by whatever emotion he chooses to project.

Madame Goldstein's face falls as she studies him. Those hollow eyes are not lost on her. "Oh, my child," she whispers, shaking her head. "What happened to you during all these years?"

"It's nothing you need concern yourself with, Madame. Please, don't fret. These years have treated me kindly, and I have made a good living for myself. I am quite at peace." He issues a smile, pops a forkful of egg into his mouth. And as he chews, he feels quite confident in his answer. It's not a lie; he _has_ found sustainable work, the nature of which he will never reveal to her, but sustainable nonetheless. Is he at peace? Most of the time. His job does not bother him anymore. It's simply a routine. And when he is at home, he delights in the simple things: a messy sketch on a notebook page, a light spot of cooking. Candle-making, even. His life is, overall, perfectly adequate.

Until Madame Goldstein offers him the parchment.

"Oh! Madame, you needn't have fetched my mail off the stoop for me," he says, accepting the paper with a gracious bow of his head. He wonders for a second why she would do such a thing; she is a commoner, yes, but such a thing is beneath her status - and then Madame laughs, and there's something sad behind it.

"No, my dear. That's not your mail. It's for _you,_ yes. But it's long overdue."

He turns the paper round and round in his hand. It's such a delicate sheet, so thin he can see the ink through the back - all dramatic, loopy letters, complete with tiny flowers doodled around the edges. Is this... a child's work? What business would he have with such a thing?

"How... long overdue?" he asks, hesitant. His thumb slides under the fold of the parchment, curiosity - a feeling that never belonged to him - urging him to open it. But he stills his hand. Something is wrong.

Madame meets his eyes, holds his gaze. She inhales a long, deep breath, lets it go over the count of eight seconds. "Oh, my Elias." Her lips move, _continue_ moving, and he isn't quite sure he's heard the words correctly. Certainly not. Couldn't be. He exhales a curt sigh through his nose, implores her to repeat what she's said, explaining that, I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that.

"My darling," she says. She reaches for his hand. "It's been waiting for you for twelve years."

[x]

Twelve years. He nearly chokes on the half-chewed egg in his mouth. _Twelve years._

The past he'd so desperately wanted to leave behind, dredged up in a single moment. The memories, the pain, the crying. The games played after school. Everything. Like a breaking dam it comes rushing in, overloading his senses, boggling his mind. The room is spinning, the chair legs wobbling, the walls melting, and Elias slams a fist onto the table to ground himself. His heart beats erratically; the discordant rhythm sends his skin crawling.

_Goddamn it._

Madame hangs her head sheepishly retracts her hand from Elias'. "It's - as you may well have guessed - from my dear Lillian. It was meant for you. It always was," she tells him, voice rich with guilt. "I only ever read the first few sentences. But I couldn't bear to part with it. It's her handwriting, you know. I didn't have much left of her after..."

"I- I understand," he says, breathless, and it's true. He does. Just because he understands sentimentality doesn't mean he has to like it.

"Anyway, I... I've been searching for you all this time, hoping I might return it to you someday. She... she insisted that you read it. Said that, if anything happened, you'd need it."

_Need it._ Elias snorts. "That's..." 

"Oh, yes." Madame's face lights up with a smile. "Yes, I know. It's such a Lillian thing to say."

He nods, remarking that, yes, that was exactly what he was thinking. Lillian always did have a flair for the dramatic; he was no stranger to that at all. And of all her exploits, nothing, he decided, _nothing,_ could be more dramatic than a letter delivered after death. She sure knew how to make an impression.

"If you'd like to be alone while you read it, I can step outside," Madame Goldstein offers, but Elias shakes his head.

"Please, stay. I'm a slow reader," he explains. "Wouldn't want you stuck outside."

But the truth is, he doesn't want to read the letter at all. He wants to hand it back to Madame Goldstein, tell her that, I'm sorry, I cannot do this. He wants to light it with a match and let it burn, wants to toss it out the window, wants to dispose of it in the garbage. Anything but read it. Yet Madame's watchful eyes pierce his chest, bore a hole through his ribs, and he thinks that, perhaps, this situation is inescapable. An indescribable feeling comes over him, tells him he _must_ read it. For Madame, for Lillian. He can do that much, can't he?

Yes. He unfolds the letter, takes a deep breath.

And he begins.

_"Dear Elias (or as Mummy would say, 'Elias Leon!'),_

_If you're reading this, it means you probably can't visit me. By now, you know that I'm sick. The doctor said it wasn't bad, but every day, it hurts more and more. Sometimes, I wake up and think I won't be able to breathe. It's scary, because I don't want to die like that. I don't want to die at all. Honestly, though, I wish the doctor would just tell me if I'm going to die, that way I can do something fun in my remaining time. We could make flower crowns again! And I'll have to tell you what to do, because you never remember. But it's fun to teach you. You're a good listener._

_Sometimes, you don't listen, though. I guess boys are like that. You probably think my advice is stupid, or crazy, even though it really isn't. You just think differently from me. Do you remember when I told you about how we'd find our soulmates together? I wasn't joking when I said that. Also, I know you pretended to care about soulmates for my sake. I never said anything because I thought it was sweet, how you were thinking about me and protecting me. I needed that, I think. Someone to listen to me._

_I'm going to ask you one last time to listen to me. If something happens to me, I don't want you to forget about us. I don't want you to forget how we would always help each other, no matter what. We were always there for each other, through everything. And I want to be there for you. So do me one last favor, one final act of kindness. You vowed to help me find my soulmate, right? Well, I, Lillian Adrianna Goldstein, am vowing here and now to help you find yours. Keep this letter with you as a reminder of that vow. And if you ever see that red thread, do you know what you do?_

_**You follow it."**_


End file.
